Chapter 9 - GRACE HARPER’S TRUTH
Duca emerged into the warm, bright light of the study, carrying Grace Harper in his arms like a child.
Across the room, on the oxblood leather couch, Mia let out a strangled, joyful cry. “Mama!”
Mia leaped off the cushions, baby Lily bobbing securely against her chest, and rushed toward them. Duca bypassed his mahogany desk entirely, heading straight for the deep sofa. He laid Grace down gently against the cushions, immediately stripping off his silk waistcoat to bundle it beneath her head as an improvised pillow.
“Mia, stay close, but give her room to breathe,” Duca said, his voice firm and steadying. He reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out his smartphone, and dialed his private physician with a thumb flick.
“Arthur,” Duca barked into the receiver the second the line connected, not waiting for a greeting. “Get to the Beacon Hill house right now. Bring an IV line, broad-spectrum antibiotics, and an emergency pediatric kit. Don't ask questions. You have eight minutes.”
He hung up, tossing the phone onto the desk, and turned back to the trembling woman on the sofa.
Mia was on her knees, pressing her face against her mother’s feverish cheek, small tears of relief finally spilling over her rosy skin. “Mama, you're here. You're out. I tried to clean the desk, Mama, I tried…”
Grace’s weak hand drifted up, her cracked fingers threading through Mia’s messy ponytail. “My sweet girl… my brave, brave girl…”
Duca knelt on the Persian rug beside them, his broad presence a wall of iron between the fragile family and the rest of the world. He reached out and gently laid two fingers against Grace’s wrist, monitoring her rapid, thready pulse.
“Grace,” Duca said quietly, his voice cutting through the soft sobs in the room. “Look at me.”
Her tired, hazel eyes flickered toward his.
“Who put you in that wall?” he asked, his tone level, but carrying a dormant violence that could have leveled a city block. “Who wedged that door shut?”
Grace swallowed hard, her chest heaving as she struggled for air. “Vance…” she whispered, the name tasting of poison. “Your estate manager… Vance. Two days ago, I was dusting the lower stacks… I found… I found ledgers in that cavity, Mr. Duca. Ledgers from your shipping accounts. He was skimming… millions from the docks… using your estate safe to hide the cash. He caught me reading them. He forced me down there and kicked the door shut. He told me… he told me he’d let the fever take me, and that your family would think I just walked out on the job…”
A terrifying stillness settled over Julian Duca.
Every puzzle piece snapped into place with mathematical precision. Vance had reported Grace missing yesterday morning, claiming she had abandoned her duties without notice. Vance had offered to oversee the cleaning of the upper floors personally starting tomorrow morning—doubtless to remove the ledgers, and whatever else was left inside the wall, before anyone noticed.
Duca leaned down, his eyes softening as he looked at Grace, then at Mia, whose brave little shoulders were finally relaxing, and finally at baby Lily, who had reached out one tiny hand to grab his thumb. Her little fingers wrapped around his scarred, tattooed knuckle with surprising grip.
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Duca did not pull away.
“Vance won't be seeing tomorrow morning,” Duca murmured, his voice as quiet and final as a tombstone. “Rest now, Grace. You and your girls are under my roof. And no one touches what belongs to my house.”
